


fifty words for murder (and i'm every one of them)

by lucylikestowrite



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2018, Mission Fic, ava is a secret service agent, ava is from the future i don't make the rules she just is, sara is a giant flirt, this is set during S2 aka before the time bureau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-07 17:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylikestowrite/pseuds/lucylikestowrite
Summary: Sara needs access to a secret bunker under the White House in order to fix an abberation. Special Agent Ava Sharpe of the Secret Service is going to help her get there, even if she doesn't know it yet.





	fifty words for murder (and i'm every one of them)

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see from the tags, this is for femslash February, and it's the first of the fics I'm going to be posting this month to celebrate. I've written three, there will 100% be a fourth, and, depending on how much time i have with uni work, and how many more ideas i can put to paper, there might be more.
> 
> title is from victorious by panic! at the disco.
> 
> Enjoy!

Someone had killed the President. More specifically, Kirsten Flores, the first female president of the United States of America.

They had infiltrated her government and assassinated her less than a year into her first term. This wouldn’t be a problem for the Legends, except that the assassin in question was from the future, sent back to ensure that President Flores couldn’t serve the full eight year term she was supposed to.

The situation was a tricky one, mainly because no-one knew exactly who had done it. The assassination had taken place deep under the White House, in a secret bunker buried behind layers of security. The assassin had assumed the identity of one of the highest ranking security officials in the country. Face changing technology of the future made that easy. So they knew what the assassin looked like after his face was changed. The official in question had been found, later that evening, knocked out. Unfortunately, they had no idea what the assassin looked like before he assumed the official’s identity.

He had chosen the perfect time to take the President out, because her presence in the bunker was a fixed point in time. On the evening that she was killed, she had been presiding over the successful withdrawal of all US troops from foreign soil.

This was a turning point in history. It meant that, if the Legends were going to successfully protect her, they couldn’t just stop her from entering the bunker - any small change to the way the evening took place could have irrevocable damage on the timeline. And because they had no idea what the assassin looked like before he stepped foot in the room, there was nothing that could be done to stop him before he got there.

So she had to be saved inside the room, which posed a number of problems, the main one being that, by 2037, technology had improved exponentially. The bunker was immune to pretty much any form of interference. Gideon had tried and failed to find an access point a number of times.

And by a number of times, she meant, as she had assured Sara, she had run approximately three million simulations, and none of them resulted with the Legends breaching the bunker without some sort of help from those who had legitimate access credentials.

Which is why Sara found herself at a party being thrown by the White House. Again. She was dressed in something shiny and silver, not exactly to her taste, but apparently it was the fashion in 2037. It was longer than would be useful if things turned into a fight, but then again, it was a black tie occasion, so a mini skirt didn’t seem exactly appropriate.

Gideon had identified a number of individuals who had access to the bunker, and each of the Legends been assigned one of them, hopeful that one of them would be successful in entering the bunker, and that, if they were, they would be able to stop the assassin in time.

The bunker was small enough that there was no way they could make a second try. If they failed, there was no chance of making another go at it without risking being seen by their past selves - it would damage the timeline even further.

And the timeline was already pretty damaged.

But there was a reason they were getting to this before any other aberrations that had appeared. In the original timeline, President Flores had signed a number of important laws into being, and the loss of these would be a blow to the future of the States.

It wasn’t these that mattered the most right at that second. In the sixth year of her term, she had signed in a small but controversial amendment to an immigration law that, seventy or so years later, had allowed Rip Hunter’s parents to enter the country.

This wasn’t the law that the assassin had travelled back in time to prevent being enacted. It was a side effect, hardly likely to have even been considered by the forces that planned the assassination.

But it had the effect of changing history just enough that the Legends’ very existence was hanging in the balance. Just enough that the Time Masters never recruited Rip.

While the timeline was still in flux, they were safe. But once it solidified, once the President’s death was part of the new timeline, there was no way of knowing what would happen. They had to act fast. Sara didn’t fancy being part of some sort of Back to the Future situation where her arms started disappearing, which was why she was determined to fix this.

And why she was determined that she was going to be successful in persuading her target, one Ava Sharpe, to get her into the bunker.

Sharpe was a Secret Service agent, and as far as Sara could tell, had a record that was the squeakiest of clean. She certainly wouldn’t be taken down by a bribe, but then again, that would’ve been boring.

She’d dug a little deeper. Sharpe paid her bills on time. She owned a townhouse in DC. She had two cats. She’d spent time in the army in her early twenties. Everything seemed pretty normal, and there was nothing that had particularly helped Sara with anything that could be used.

Sharpe didn’t seem to have much of an internet presence, or really any internet presence at all. Nothing on any of the numerous social networks that existed by the time 2037 rolled around - dozens of websites, none of the which were familiar to Sara.

There also didn’t seem to be any photos of her besides her official government photo. She stared out of the screen at Sara, her hair scraped back, the lines of her face harsh.

That was until Gideon brought back one other photo of her, buried deep on a dating site with only a first name and a location to suggest it could be her. She looked completely different, her hair down, and a smile on her face. She was obviously younger - the dog tags around her neck made it look like it might even be as old as her army days. The date on the photo confirmed that - 2024.

It wasn’t that that interested Sara, though. It was the small rainbow flag she was waving, and the words in her bio that confirmed her suspicions. Whether or not Ava Sharpe had been advertising it recently, she was definitely into girls. It made everything a little bit more interesting.

Sure, it was a matter of life and death, but it was always a matter of life and death, and that didn’t mean Sara couldn’t have a little bit of fun.

Gideon had crafted identities for all of them. They wouldn’t hold up if someone had looked into them too deeply, but they were enough to get them past the security at the White House, so they must have been pretty decent.

Sara was now Sara Shaw, an expert in weapons, or the military, or something that she wasn’t planning on having to talk about if she could help it. She'd scanned the files, but she didn't think she'd need the information.

The party was crowded. Washington DC’s best and brightest were out in full force. The room was loud, laughs travelling across the room easily. Everyone looked at ease, relaxed. Nobody knew that anything was wrong. But that made it easier to slip between the bodies without being questioned. Everyone’s guards were down.

That was probably part of the reason the assassin had chosen tonight. Slipping in relatively unnoticed would've been easy.

Sara was intensely aware that any man she passed could be the one they were looking for. Part of her wanted to use the skills the League had taught her - spot the odd one out - because she was certain she'd be able to if she looked hard enough.

But that wasn't her mission. Flores had to make it to the bunker. If she took the assassin out now, it would certainly cause a commotion - and even if it didn't, the point in time was too delicate, too fragile to risk any sort of action.

Her mission was to find Ava Sharpe, and get her to let Sara into the bunker. Across the room she spotted Mick, looking uncomfortable in a suit, his eye on a Secret Service agent standing by a door. A few minutes ago she'd seen Amaya cosying up to some middle aged man or another, and Ray was somewhere else, trying to butter up a low ranking cabinet member.

From the comms in her ear, it would seem that everyone had located their target - everyone except Sara. She didn't like that. She spun on the spot, a glass of wine in her hand, scanning the room and trying not to look like she was looking for someone.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her. She'd stared at Sharpe’s ID photo long enough to recognise her just from the corner of her face. That was all she got, as the agent turned, a hand at her ear, her mouth moving, walking away in the opposite direction to Sara. Sara cursed under her breath. If she left the main room, made Sara follow her somewhere out of bounds, it was going to make this harder to get her to trust Sara.

Sara put down the glass, pushing her way through the crowds, hoping that she wouldn’t seem like she's in any particular rush. She noticed a few eyes turning her way, and she slowed down. They couldn't cause a fuss, no matter what they did.

Luckily for her, Sharpe had stopped, apparently just changing position. She stood on the other side of the room to Sara, her stance poised. Her eyes scanned the room constantly. She was imposing, definitely a little taller than Sara, but somehow also invisible. That was the mark of a good agent. Sara hoped she didn’t end up getting her in trouble.

Not that she was going to try too hard to avoid that. The fate of the future of the United States was more important than one secret service agent’s salary. If shit had to go down, shit would go down.

She approached slowly, inching around the edges of the party, crossing the room in a way that looked like she was simply meandering. As she got closer, she weighed up her options. She wasn’t looking at Sharpe, sure that this close the agent would notice glances at her. So she couldn't get a closer look at her face, try to work her out more than what she’s been able to do before now.

All she could do was guess what would work on Sharpe. Or hope. It was hardly even guessing. She found another glass of wine, downed it, then replaced it on the tray. The waiter gave her a look, and she shot one back at him. The wine was part of the act.

She’d used a similar ploy at the White House before, so why not try it again? She just had to hope that Ava Sharpe liked helping damsels in distress. She was mere meters away from the agent, and it was now or never. If she messed this up, if Sharpe brushed her off - if she cared more about security than random women falling at her feet, which seemed perfectly likely - then Sara would have to admit defeat, and hope one of the other Legends was more successful.

It was an old trick, the oldest trick in the book, really. But Sara was good at making everything she did look convincing. Years in the League had taught her to lie successfully in more ways than simply through words. So when she stumbled, apparently tripping over the hem of her skirt, and fell directly onto Ava Sharpe, the agent’s reaction seemed to be one that suggested she believed what had just happened was real.

Two arms caught her as she twisted her face up, a hiss escaping from her lips. In order for this to work, she had to actually hurt herself. She was good at dealing with pain, and she wasn’t worried about messing it up further, wasn’t worried about doing the rest of the mission on a twisted ankle, what with the knowledge that Gideon could fix it, but the initial flare of pain was still rough. She purposely avoided looking straight at Sharpe, instead focusing on her ankle.

Sharpe’s hands didn’t leave Sara’s arm, and Sara stifled a grin, her hand still poking at the skin around her foot, trying to figure out how much she’d actually hurt it. An initial examination made it seem like it wasn’t too bad, but she wasn’t going to let that on.

The hands on her arm sat her down, and when she finally looked up, the Agent’s eyes were worried.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”

Sara wiggled her foot slightly, and then let out a whimper that was more than a little exaggerated. “I think I’ve sprained my ankle. Stupid heels,” she said, her eyes wide.

She paused, meeting Sharpe’s eyes again, trying to gauge how invested she was in Sara’s injury. It would be a whole lot easier to convince her away from the heat of the party, and Sara knew for a fact that there’s a first aid room somewhere close. But she didn't want to be the one to suggest it. The longer she went without arousing suspicion, the better.

If Sharpe didn’t seem like she’s willing to help, Sara would have to try a little harder, but, looking a little closer at her target, there seemed to be genuine concern behind her eyes.

So Sara waved away the hand that she reached out to help her. “You know, I’m sure it’s nothing, I’ll be fine,” she said, standing up, exaggerating the wince that she felt as she puts pressure on the ankle, and collapsing back down in a way that she was sure made her look helpless.

Sharpe’s brow crinkled, and she shook her head. “I don’t think so. You need ice, at least. Maybe a bandage. Some medicine, if we've got it,” she said, tilting her head to get a closer look at the injury.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re too busy to-”

“It’s no problem, Ma’am. It’s my job.”

“Isn’t your job to protect the President?” Sara asked, her tone playful. She was feeling more relaxed now that their first encounter was going how she wanted, so she let a smile fall onto her face, turning up the charm just a bit. Sharpe pulled her up again, a hand around her waist, and led them through a door on the side of the room.

Once they were through the door, she spoke, “Yes. But they give us medical training for a reason. It is detrimental to appearances if we let important guests wander around injured.”

Sara almost asked who the important guest was, and then she remembered that that was her. She just nodded, limping along. Sharpe walked slowly, and Sara appreciated it - the longer she walked on the ankle, the more it hurt.

It was potentially not the greatest of plans, but she was in the middle now, and it was too late to try something else.

She let out an audible sigh of relief when Sharpe stopped, opening a door with a keycard that she had pulled out of a hidden pocket. Sara tried not to stare.

She wished it were as easy as stealing a keycard, but obviously the White House was a little more advanced than that - she’d need Sharpe with her and willing if she was going to get in.

Inside the room, Sharpe set her down, and Sara flashed her another smile - the sort of smile that had brought many a historical figure to their knees. The agent, however, seemed immune. She moved around the room, opening cabinets, pulling an ice-pack out of a freezer, before handing it to Sara.

“Hold that on it for now,” she said, turning away again before Sara could say anything. She was certainly interested in helping Sara heal, but Sara was beginning to think that she was going to have trouble getting any further than that.

Sharpe turned back, placing a vial of something down on the side. She set the ice-pack aside, and then her fingers were on Sara’s ankle, firm but gentle. Her face twisted as she moved her hand around. Sara kept her eyes on the agent, trying, and seemingly failing, to get her to be interested in anything other than Sara’s foot.

When Sharpe seemed satisfied, she sat back. “It’s probably just twisted. But I can give you something for it. Otherwise you’re going to have a pretty difficult time walking around the rest of the night in those heels.”

Sara leant forward, lowering her voice. “And what might you be able to give me?” she asked, making a big deal of biting her lip.

She could probably list half a dozen people she knew that would be falling at her feet by now, but Sharpe continued to be utterly oblivious to Sara’s advances, or maybe just impervious. She simply turned to her side, picking up the vial she had deposited there minutes before.

“A bit of Epinadryl should do the trick.”

Sara assumed that a person from 2037 would know what that did, so she just nodded. It was a slight risk, letting someone give her a medicine that she knew nothing about, but she had to trust that Ava still believed her, and wasn't going to dose her up with some nefarious substance.

She obviously doesn’t do a good job of masking her confusion, because Sharpe paused, the needle in her hand.

“It’s just an anti-inflammatory. It’s a pretty new development, but perfectly safe, I assure you. It apparently works wonders on sprains and twists,” she said, expertly preparing the needle, and then, a second later, Sara winced as she felt it enter her skin.

The relief, however, was almost immediate. It was certainly much better to injure oneself in the future than in the past. She moved her foot experimentally. The pain was almost completely gone. That was a development that she wasn’t expecting, but was immensely grateful for. It was going to make everything else a lot easier.

Except nothing was going to happen if Sharpe left, which, from her cleaning up and general body language, seemed like what was going to happen.

Sara got up, relishing in the novelty of being able to properly use her foot again, and came up behind where Sharpe was standing, a smile on her face - her most dazzling, even if she were to say it herself.

Sharpe turned, and she seemed ever so slightly flustered (just a tiny bit, but that was something) by their sudden proximity.

“Is there anything I can do to thank you?” Sara asked, her voice sugary sweet.

Sharpe shook her head. “No, Ma’am. This is my job.”

Sara sighed. Half of her thought that maybe that photo had been of someone else, but she tried one more time, determined to see this through to the end. She reached out, one hand finding Sharpe’s arm, the other twisting in her hair. She looked up through her eyelashes, the charm offensive on full.

“There’s really nothing I can do?”

At this point, she wasn’t even dropping hints anymore. She was outright laying her cards on the table.

And Sharpe seemed to finally get the message, her gaze drifting down, away from Sara’s eyes.

“Are you flirting with me?” She looked shocked, almost affronted.

Sara shrugged, trying to stay casual, as if the result of this encounter didn’t potentially mean life or death.

“That’s entirely inappropriate.”

“Where’s the fun in being appropriate, Ava?” The name slipped out without Sara even thinking about it, and Sara knew she’d blown it as soon as the expression on Sharpe’s face changed from shock to suspicion, her eyes narrowing.

“I never told you my name,” she said, her hand moving to her side.

Sara tried to brush it off, almost certain she was too far gone. “You didn’t?” she asked weakly.

“No,” came the reply, her voice hard. “And come to think of it, you never told me yours.”

“Sara Lance.” Her real name came out before she could stop herself. She hope that Sharpe would see her sincerity, that it would buy her a couple more minutes.

Sharpe’s hands were still hovering at her jacket, as if trying to decide whether or not she needed the gun that she was clearly thinking of drawing.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sara said, moving away from Sharpe, towards the door, blocking it. If the worst came to the worst, she couldn’t let either of them out of the room. Sharpe cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh? Because it looks like you were trying to seduce me.”

The words, coming from Sharpe’s mouth, were almost funny. Sara smirked. It probably wasn’t the right thing to do in the situation, because apparently it tipped Sharpe over the edge, her hands finding the gun. Sara had no doubt that she wouldn't hesitate to use it.

“Okay, let’s not overreact,” Sara said, her hands up. “I’m one of the good guys.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that because?”

“Because if you don’t, the President is going to die.”

Sharpe’s grip on the gun only got tighter, the lines on her face tightening. “That really does not help your case, Miss _Lance_.” She spat the name out, as if she didn't believe it was Sara’s real one. This was fair - Sara hadn't given her many reason to believe her. And, as far as Sharpe knew, there was no way for Sara to know about a plot to kill the president unless she was involved in it.

She inclined her head. “I see that. But you’re going to have to believe me.”

Sharpe did not lower her gun, and Sara made a split second decision. She hadn’t wanted to have to tell the truth, but now it seemed she was naive for thinking she could’ve succeeded without it.

So she told the truth. Words spilled out of her, trying to say everything as quickly as she possibly can. At one point, she had to pause, because she accidentally let slip that they know who the assassin is. That had been part of the truth she hadn't been planning on telling, because Sharpe reacted exactly as Sara had assumed she would: her hand went to her ear, ready to let everyone and their mother in the White House in on the plot.

Sara acted without thinking, grabbing the hand away. Sharpe looked down at the hand, before shaking it away.

“What do you think you’re doing? If you know who the threat is, then you have to tell me. He has to be neutralised.”

Sara shook her head. “You might want to sit down for this one.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Your funeral.” She paused. “You can’t just take him out because we’re not just dealing with repercussions in the present. The future is at stake as well. It’s a fixed point in time. If we do anything that could stop the President from entering the bunker, then we risk messing up the whole future.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not if you’re dealing with time travelers,” Sara said, sighing.

“That’s even more ridiculous.”

“It’s the truth,” Sara said. “I’m not from… here. This is twenty years in my future.” It felt like a last ditch effort. Sara was sure she was going to have knock Sharpe out and admit defeat.

And then she narrowed her eyes and lowered her gun.

“You said you’re Sara Lance?” Sharpe looked down, shaking her head. She was silent for almost a minute. Sara could almost see the wheels spinning in her mind. Sara could hardly breathe. When she spoke again, her voice was slow, disbelieving. “I remember you. There were all these articles about you and your little…. band of superheroes back when I was a kid. You died. Twice.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“You were also part of an organisation of assassins, if I recall correctly.”

Sara waved this away. “That’s in the past.”

“Clearly.”

Sharpe stared Sara down, her eyes flicking over Sara’s face, as if trying to figure her out. The she sighed, stowing the gun away.

“What do we have to do?”

Sara grinned. Having two people would make it easier. Sharpe could make sure that the President did what she was supposed to do, and Sara could dispose of the assassin as discreetly as possible.

They left the first aid room, their pace brisk. Sara looked at her watch. They had a little under ten minutes until it happened.

She turned her comms on for the first time in a while, and all she got was silence. “Guys?”

It took a second, and then a response came, Martin’s voice loud in her ears. “Sara? It would seem you’re our only hope. The others have failed.”

Sara grimaced. “Gotcha,” she said. “I got this.”

She looked over at Sharpe. Her movements were precise, practiced. She seemed like a good ally to have.

“We got this.”

“We?” Martin’s voice was worried. “If you’ve blown your cover, that’s incredibly dangerous for the timeline, Sara-”

Sara didn’t hear the rest of it, shutting off the comms again. She didn’t need any distractions.

She knew the route to the bunker like the back of her hand. She could’ve got there with her eyes shut. When they reached the nondescript patch of wall, she stopped, expectant.

Sharpe paused. “I’m not showing you the access codes.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “I already know almost everything about how to get into this place. What’s one more thing?”

Sharpe stood her ground, her arms crossed. She was stubborn. Sara liked that, smiling slightly as she spun around in defeat. When she heard the sound of a pin pad opening, she half wanted to peek, but she figured that she should probably stay in Sharpe’s good graces.

There was a click, and she almost turned, and then she remembered all the extra security features that had made getting into the bunker harder than just entering a code, so stayed with her back turned, her eyes on the corridor.

The records showed that the assassin had entered the bunker twenty minutes before the kill, so he should be in there right now. Once in, they simply had to bide their time.

If they made their move too soon, then someone would notice something was wrong before the President could make the call, and she would be removed - and everything would be for nothing.

She’s glad once they enter the bunker that she didn’t tell Sharpe who the threat was. Her eyes are wild searching the room, and Sara’s sure that, had she been told, Sharpe wouldn’t hesitate to take him out, the future be damned.

The room was busy, dozens of people milling around in low light. “You have to be as discreet as possible,” she whispered to Sharpe. “The timeline is sensitive. Butterfly effect and all that. Just keep an eye on the President. If I fail for some reason… you have to do whatever you can to make sure she makes that call.”

Sharpe nodded, and then they split up, keeping to the shadows on the side of the room. She glanced at her watch again. The walk had been long, and there was a little under two minutes left.

She could see him. The technology was good. There was nothing to suggest that he wasn’t who he suggested. He was also a good actor - he didn’t seem out of place at all as he held a conversation with another official.

The President stood in the middle of the room, staring up at a number of monitors. She was surrounded by security, but none of them were alert. There was no reason to be. As far as they knew, they were safe.

Sara kept her head down. There were seconds left. She couldn’t be made. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the assassin start to move, his hand reaching into his pocket, the outline of a gun obvious.

That was all the cue she needed. She was fast. She pulled him to the side, hard, one hand clamped down over his mouth. A large computer monitor meant they were just out of sight of the rest of the room.

A knife was in her hand almost instantly, and he hardly had time to react before one hand was burying the blade deep inside him. If it had been any other situation, she would’ve hesitated before making a killing blow, but this wasn’t the time for considering.

She never missed, had never missed when this had been the job, and today was no different.

He slumped, just in time for Sara to hear a cheer go up around the room. She dared a look around the room, but nobody was looking her way - everyone was focused on the President, and the monitors in front of her.

She hadn’t considered that they might have been able to get out of there without being seen, but then Sharpe joined her, looking down at the man on the floor in front of her.

She grimaced. The face was clearly familiar. “You’re sure he’s not the real David Smith? Because that looks a whole lot like my boss.”

Sara pointed to a small piece of technology on the side of his face, sparking and fizzing slightly now that he was dead. “Sure. The real thing is knocked out somewhere in a closet.” She paused. “Speaking of, we should really get this dude out of here while there's a chance no-one will notice.”

Somehow, they did. Sharpe was unsurprisingly strong. Sara called the rest of the Legends as they were leaving the bunker, and, soon enough, the assassin’s body was gone. They found the original David Smith stuffed in a nearby closet, luckily still breathing.

He didn't seem like he was going to wake up any time soon, so they deposited him somewhere a little safer, and a little less disturbing to wake up in.

Once this was done, and they found themselves alone, Sara wasn't sure what to do. The mission was done. They'd saved the President - and the Waverider, but it didn't quite feel like there was closure.

The hallway was deserted, dimly lit.

Somewhere, the party was still going. It had hardly been more than an hour since they'd first met, and it felt like a lifetime.

In her ear, the comms line crackled open, and she turned away, pressing a finger to her ear. “Sara? Are you coming? We’re ready to leave.”

“Yeah. Just give me a minute.” She turned back.

Sharpe was still there, her expression blank.

“I have to go.” Sara wasn't sure why she felt so awkward.

“I heard,” she replied.

“Thank you, Agent Sharpe. For believing me.”

“You can call me Ava,” she replied, and there was a hint of a smile on her face. “But you seemed to have already decided you could do that.”

It was too much of an opening for Sara to ignore. She closed the gap between them, her lips hard, hands on the lapels of Ava’s suit.

Ava was unresponsive for a split second, and then her hands found Sara’s waist. Her lips parted, a gasp escaping from her lips, and then Sara pulled away.

“Don't want to be too inappropriate. You are at work after all,  _Ava_ ,” she said with a wink, turning on her heels and walking away.


End file.
